The Editor. Стивен Роули

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СКАЧАТЬ the memory, taking a full beat before coming back. “In case that story didn’t do it for you, consider this your lunch lady.”

      I hold up my drink and we clink glasses with good cheer, this long story a toast of sorts to our new relationship and the work we hope to accomplish together. “To Ithaca.”

      “To Ithaca,” she echoes.

      I take a sip, and the drink is … tart, citrusy. Only a little pulpy. A few of these would be downright dangerous.

      “How does it taste?”

      “It’s … sly.”

      “You’re lucky you’re here this week. Last week I was keen on acquiring a book of cold blended soups. Lila and I tried a few of the recipes. As it turns out, after gazpacho there aren’t many cold soups worth a damn. Have you ever had cream-of-cashew soup? Cold?”

      “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

      “Believe me, there’s no pleasure to be had. Unless you like wallpaper glue.”

      I grimace, then gesture toward the Cavafy book, and she gives me permission to take it. I open to the marked page. “Ithaka referred to in the feminine, like she is mother herself. You must have always known what Ithakas mean.”

      Jackie makes a rich sound like an exquisite piece of chocolate is melting on her tongue. “And those are just the last few lines. Beautiful, isn’t it? Take that book home with you and read the rest.”

      “It’s remarkably … apropos.” But have I always known? Is my book some sort of misadventure to understand something that, deep down, I already know?

      “Inspired by Homer, if I’m not mistaken.” Of course she’s not mistaken.

      “The return of Odysseus home,” I say, grateful this time for something more intelligent to say. “Homer, I’ve read.”

      “The maturity of the soul as we all travel home is, I think, all the traveler can hope for. I want you to think of that, especially in the context of your manuscript’s ending. I think that’s where the bulk of your work lies.”

      “The ending.”

      “The last third of the book. I have a clear picture of who your characters are at the start of the quarantine, but I don’t know exactly who they are at the end. To each other, to themselves.”

      “I keep thinking of our first conversation. How you said books are journeys.”

      “That’s right.”

      “But …”

      Jackie rests her chin on the back of her hand. “What is it?”

      I hesitate, not sure how I can say this. “I’m sorry. I haven’t worked with an editor before. I don’t want to overstep.”

      “I tell my writers our conversations are privileged. Like doctor and patient.”

      “Lawyer and client?”

      “Priest and parishioner. Confession only if you want.” Jackie raises her glass.

      “I was just thinking if my book is in part about motherhood, that’s a journey you have taken.”

      “One that has given me some of my most sublime moments. But your book. Yes, it’s about motherhood, but through the eyes of a son. And I haven’t been one of those.”

      “I suppose that’s true,” I concede.

      Jackie takes a long, slow sip from her glass. “I want to see real growth on the page, how the events have changed them, particularly the son. You have a remarkably fresh voice, so I know you have it in you.”

      My drink is going down too easily, and I can feel the rum rushing to my face, coloring my cheeks, creating a blessed hollowness between my ears, allowing me not to pass out. “I can taste the molasses.”

      Jackie narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me. “It’s hard for you to hear a compliment.”

      “I don’t suppose I’ve received enough compliments to know.”

      “That was wonderful deflection. The molasses.”

      “Another compliment?”

      “Another deflection?” She takes one more sip, then sets her glass down on a coaster. “You can taste it, though, I’ll give you that. Especially when you know that it’s there.”

      I place the Cavafy book on the corner of her desk and inspect what’s left of my drink.

      Jackie refocuses. “Before we get to the ending, tell me more about your mother.”

      I burst out laughing and am immediately embarrassed, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.

      “Oh, heavens. I sounded like your analyst.”

      I’m fascinated to know if she’s familiar with the language of therapy. It wouldn’t surprise me, and yet it’s hard to imagine her vulnerable enough to seek help. But as much as our conversations may be privileged, I’m sure the privilege of probing conversation flows only one way. “What would you like to know?”

      “Was she always sad?”

      “No” is my first answer. But then I have to think—Is she sad? “I don’t think so. Perhaps. Are we talking about Ruth? I’m afraid I’m a little confused.”

      “There’s confusion in the character.” She leans forward to retrieve the glass from my hand, and I barely loosen my grip enough for her to take it. If it weren’t for the condensation from the ice, it might not have wiggled out of my hand at all. “There are several moments where you get close to expressing something real, and I think you pad your observations with what I guess are fictional details and it keeps you from hitting some of the harder truths.”

      She pours more rum into my glass. “Not too much,” I say. But as she refills my drink I think, To hell with it. You know? If we’re going to do this, let’s do this. Let this be the grand marshal in a parade of lunch ladies to come.

      “Tell me something true,” she says.

      “About my mother?”

      “Even if it has nothing to do with the book.”

      I think about this and how not to further betray her. She’d already be horrified if she were a fly on the wall right now. Do I tell Jackie my mother resents me for her being alone? That she took my side once, and it cost her her marriage? That even though it was the right thing to do, in the moment she probably didn’t envision how long life would be in the wake of it? That we’re barely on speaking terms right now? “I don’t think my mother got much of what she wanted out of life.”

      “She has her children.”

      “That’s true, but hardly anything else.”

      “Does anyone? Get what they truly want.”

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